


the helpless and the holders

by BloodstainedBlonde



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Severe OCD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:01:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodstainedBlonde/pseuds/BloodstainedBlonde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael had always known about Gavin’s OCD.</p><p>He’d always had it, and it had always been severe, and Michael had always loved him regardless. </p><p>He’d wait through a million light switch flickers because they needed to be done, listen to a million repeats of words just been said because they didn’t sound right and stand through a million retried kisses because the angle wasn't aligned perfectly.</p><p>Because Gavin always said ‘I love you’ afterwards.</p><p>And almost as if he had his own compulsive disorder, Michael always said it back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the helpless and the holders

**Author's Note:**

> possible trigger warning- unintentional/intentional self harm, light
> 
> inspired by an an acquaintances experiences, a heartbreaking book and a poem.

It had always been like this.

Since Michael had known that Gavin existed, he’d been aware of his obsessive compulsive disorder and aware of the problems that had come with it. And from the moment he’d discovered the extent of it, he couldn’t help the loathing he felt towards the disorder that sometimes ruled Gavin’s life.

(Not Gavin, though. Never Gavin.)

From back when it had just been he, Geoff and Jack at the Achievement Hunter office, and Geoff had barged into work and stepped into the room that Michael and Jack were residing in to inform them that today was the day.

"…The day for what?" Michael had asked flatly, only paying half attention, so casually unaware of the importance of the conversation and everything it entailed – Gavin, his disorder, the rest of Michael’s _life._

Geoff had blinked at him, trying to figure out if he was joking or not. "The day for the new guy. The twink Burnie’s been going through hell to get into Texas for the past fucking year."

"Oh," Michael responded, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Did you not read the fucking email I sent out?" Geoff demanded, starting to look annoyed. Michael’s confusion had risen, eyes drawn to the way Geoff’s lips were pursed in annoyance as he waited for an answer.

"No…?" Michael tried. "I only made that email address up because I didn’t fucking have a good one. I don’t ever _check_ it."

Geoff had opened his mouth to say something but instead shook his head, making eye contact with Jack for a second and scrubbing a hand over his face. "I’m glad," he said sarcastically. "Well, Gavin’s coming, like he’s here right now, and since you pay _so much_ attention to the important information I emailed you—"

He was interrupted by a loud bang, the thud of someone walking into the door and a muffled curse.

"Bollocks!" a voice exclaimed, then a second later, a little quieter, "bollocks." The intruder pulled the door open and stepped inside, one last _"bollocks,"_ escaping his lips, a little louder than the last repetition but quieter than the first.

Michael looked at Geoff, who was eyeing him carefully. "So he’s British," he shrugged, "big deal."

Gavin’s eyes darted around the room and rested on Michael for a second before repeating the same course once, twice. He finally settled on looking at Geoff, a smile gracing his features, and Michael had to bite down on his tongue to keep from muttering " _and hot at that, too."_

"Hello! I’m Gavin," the man introduced, directing it at Jack and Michael but keeping his gaze on Geoff. After a moment he looked annoyed, frowning at himself and clearing his throat. "Hello, I’m Gavin," he said again, and this time he smiled.

Michael raised an eyebrow but stood and offered a hand. Gavin grinned and took it, pumping it twice before letting it go. He turned to Jack and held a hand out (his other hand, Jack noted) and shook it twice again before letting both hands drop to his side.

"Sorry to start the introductions off so strangely, but for _Michael’s_ sake," Geoff directed a burning glare at the man, "I have to mention it. This is Gavin, and he has severe OCD. And I’m sure you all know what that is." The baby talking voice he adopted was again directed at Michael, and the warnings and undercurrent of threat didn’t go amiss by the intended participant.

"I thought you said you already told them, Geoffrey." Gavin looked dismayed.

"It’s not my fault Michael’s a fucking idiot and didn’t check the company email!" Geoff defended, hands up in a vague gesture of blame shifting. Without realising, Gavin stepped forward and clapped both hands to Geoff’s, backing away immediately with bright red cheeks and mumbling an apology.

"I couldn’t… I had to," he murmured quietly, staring at the ground.

Geoff waved it away. "At least with you around we’ll never be left hanging," he joked, and the fleeting awkwardness of the room dissipated. "You’ll be next to Michael, and it’s obvious where Jack and I sit. We’re hoping to get some new members soon, but…" he trailed off and Gavin nodded, looking at his new desk next to his hopefully new friend.

When he sat down, he had to pull his chair out and reposition it twice before he was satisfied. The apologetic look he shot Michael reminded the auburn haired man of a kicked puppy, and Gavin looked like he expected nothing more of Michael than for him to insult him or turn away.

That was when Michael began to hate it.

So instead of turning away and ignoring him, Michael just laughed at him, offered a warm smile, and called him a fucking idiot. The smile he got in return was the smile he fell in love with.

It had always been like this.

Gavin’s OCD had never really changed. It had always been constant, something occasionally in the background and occasionally at the forefront of the scene. Sometimes it was more noticeable than other times, some days worse than the rest, but it had never really faded or grown stronger. It was there, without question, unmissable and undeniable, embodying itself in little things, like the way he always repeated Michael’s name (though Michael had always kind of liked it, that beautiful accent with its giggling lilt) and big things in kind.

It was odd but understandable, hardly miraculous but yet intriguing that video games were something that remained nearly unaffected by Gavin’s OCD. He got a bit uncomfortable when there were too many odd numbers- odd kills on an oddly numbered team, or there were things that needed to be redone (and whenever he played Halo, he always ran the exact same ways on the exact same maps with the exact same layout, guns and setup) but for the most part he was able to act and enjoy the game normally.

He had to, to have a job as an Achievement Hunter. It was one of the things to do with his disorder that Michael was grateful for.

They’d tried medication, of course they had, it was one of the first things Michael had suggested when Gavin had moved in with him and had a lot of trouble adjusting to the new layout, new routines. It hadn’t worked- the reactions too extreme, removing his smile and his energy and his goddamn _life force_ , or didn’t seem to have much reaction at all and ended up just bothering him because there were too many pills on one day, not enough on the other, too many colours and shapes that were unorganisable and therefore unacceptable to Gavin.

"Screw them! They didn’t bloody help me anyway."

"I know, baby, but I just don’t think you should give up."

"I won’t. I promise. I promise. I’ll stick to the Luvox for a while. I promise."

"Alright."

"I promise."

They’d tried therapy, and while it had helped them make a bit more sense of his disorder, it had little impact on it. The information was useful, however, and it was often the only reason Michael could convince Gavin to return. The therapist suggested Gavin had more than just obsessive compulsive disorder, terms like _Tourettes_ thrown around, suggestions and offers for testing that Gavin kindly declined.

He’d already been diagnosed with OCD, he said, and he already had to live with all the problems, why should he have to go diagnosing every single thing wrong with him?

The therapist also informed them that like many people with OCD, Gavin had generic tics and triggers, and tics that were more particular to him. The word repeating, the perfectionist streak applicable to only certain things, the constant checking and rechecking of everything, the need for there to be only two of something rather than one or three.

She’d offered them advice on how to help — purposefully triggering compulsions in a mindset prepared to deny them, amongst other things, which Gavin had flicked off as new age bullshit but Michael knew he was really too scared to purposefully trigger his compulsions, too unconfident and too unwilling to take them on headfirst when they already ruled his life so.

It had helped them understand, but not overcome. So they’d given up and just accepted it. Gavin had, at least, and the reason Michael had stopped trying to help him was solely because the boy had convinced him he’d long stopped caring around people he was close with.

"I’ve already got you, my boi, and Ray and the Gents and Barb and Burnie ****— I’ve already got everyone I need here, and they don’t care. Who else am I worrying about?"

Michael had kissed him then, kissed him hard, and when Gavin had only needed to kiss him three times after that he'd felt so proud.

He was right, though. Despite how uncomfortable it had the potential to be, it rarely got awkward anymore. They hardly noticed when Gavin had to flick the light switches repeatedly and tuck all the chairs in to a perfect degree, three quarters under the desk and one quarter out, and when he repeated himself several times into the microphone while they were recording they just played it off to the audience as his silly antics.

(Jack always liked to complain that if he was going to have OCD, he could at least have the decency to get annoyed over the horrible mess the microphones were left in, something that Gavin seemed completely and blissfully unbothered by.)

And they laughed about it, because if they couldn’t laugh about it and play it off as a joke then it was just plain uncomfortable and besides, Gavin was glad for them to be able to laugh with him. Really, he couldn’t ask for a better group of people. He couldn’t help himself sometimes, and when something happened and he was terrified they’d start avoiding him they just proved him wrong and stayed by his side, as comforting, good natured and forgiving as they’d always been.

Even when he’d hugged Ryan once: an on the spot idea after he’d given him the belt in versus that he’d thought seemed good at the time, and he hadn’t been able to let go of him for over half an hour. As soon as he’d wrapped his arms around him he knew, and he’d almost started crying, and Geoff had clued in immediately. The tattooed man had immediately ended the recording and offered to pry Gavin away, even though they both knew it would just make the situation worse, and Gavin was telling him to go ahead because he couldn’t force his arms to let go —

But Ryan had just smiled, laughed, hugged him back for a minute and then suggested they at least move to the couch where they could get comfortable.

Geoff had tried to give him a sweet raise after that, one that Ryan had honourably declined.

Even when Gavin had been talking to Jack and his hand had suddenly shot out and found itself touching his beard, just feeling the coarse texture and fingers tugging lightly on it. He’d gone bright red and when Jack gave him an odd look, and Gavin had barely explained that he couldn’t pull away before Jack had realised it was a compulsion and just shrugged and allowed him to continue, shaking his head good naturedly when Gavin had apologised profusely.

"It felt kinda good anyway," Jack laughed afterwards, and he’d only laughed harder when Gavin had spluttered and stared at the sullied hand in dismay.

"It only lasted for like three minutes!" he’d cried, and Jack had composed himself in order to reply.

"It felt like at least thirty minutes in beard time."

Gavin had probably washed his hands fourty times that afternoon, then one for good luck and once more to make it a nice, even number.

Even when he found himself tracing the patterns of Geoff’s tattoos, mind memorising them despite their complexity. That wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, and neither of them really cared (in fact, it lulled Geoff to sleep a few times), but it didn’t make for easy access away from wherever it was happening despite Gavin’s best attempts to stop tracing Geoff's arm and let the man leave.

Like when Geoff got his ear pierced and Gavin had a meltdown, until Geoff had taken him to the shop and got that same ear pierced again, because there was only one and there had to be two.

Even when he and Ray highfived, and then they had to do it again and again until it was just right for Gavin, despite that it could take up to five minutes and on more than one occasion left Ray’s shoulder socket aching and hand red and raw. He always brushed off Gavin’s apologies and never stopped offering highfives, something that made Gavin feel more accepted than ever.

"At least I know we’ll only have the highest quality highfives for this dynamic duo," Ray had declared, offering a sincere smile that had left Michael overtaken by both jealousy and ecstasy for his friends acceptance.

Even when he and Michael kissed, and Gavin had to kiss him on the lips four times, the nose, the spot between his eyebrows, his forehead, left cheek then right cheek twice each and then lips again before he could force himself to let go of his boyfriends face. Sometimes, he had to repeat the cycle for what felt like endlessly. Michael never complained, not once, not when it made them late for work three times a week.

He just smiled, squeezed his hand, and promised him that yeah, sometimes it grated his nerves but he’d never blame him, he accepted him, and honestly at least he knew he’d never be lacking affection, right?

It had always been like this.

There were good days, where it was the normal routine. Maybe a few extra kisses, the need to repeat someone else’s words, the constant adjustment of tiny things nobody else noticed; the double and triple and quadruple checking of the lights and the power points and the doors that would sometimes make them late for work, late home and late for bed because Gavin couldn’t handle not being one hundred percent sure it was all perfectly okay.

And there were the bad days.

The days where maybe Gavin couldn’t stop blinking because he'd blinked once out of order and had to fix it but couldn't get it right, or he couldn’t stop repeating his own words or Michael’s when he spoke to him to the point where there was no conversation at all, just the occasional repeated mumble.

"Gavin, do you know what happened to my controller?"

"Gavin, do you know what happened to my controller?"

"... baby, you good?"

"You good? You good? Baby, you good?"

Where he made the same movements for hours over and retraced the same steps, and where he had to go through and colour code everything in their closet or rearrange the entire fridge repeatedly, never happy, never satisfied, and his mood would only blacken with every obsessive compulsion. Where he got stuck on certain ideas and thoughts; if he was in bed, he couldn’t get out. He’d refuse to go through certain doorways, or eat certain foods.

And there were the days where the little things were the worst.

Where he’d once got stuck repeating the word _cunt_ when he was babysitting a family member of Geoff's — like a small child, he’d repeated it, as if he couldn’t understand it but it was rather he couldn’t force himself to stop saying it. Several times in angry tones, mimicking Michael or Geoff, and if not that then something very similar. He’d gotten the compulsion locked in his mind and repeated it for hours, and when Geoff had returned home to a crying child and an equally upset Gavin, barely found it in him to reassure the lad it was okay and to ring Michael to come get him.

Geoff knew it wasn’t his fault. Sometimes, the OCD struck at just the worst moment. He’d accepted Gavin’s apology, and told him he understood by now. He understood sometimes Gavin couldn’t help repeating the same word, no matter what it was or who was his company, that sometimes Gavin _had_ to hide every single colour of something in the house from sight, that sometimes he had to add letters to the ends of words because there was only one, and there had to be two.

When Michael and Gavin started getting serious he’d made sure Michael understood that, too. And Michael did. He understood. But there were days where he would trade his soul for Gavin to not be so helpless, so trapped in his mind that he even though he could be trying his best he couldn’t stop himself.

But apparently Michael’s soul wasn’t accepted, because Gavin still got hurt. Michael still knew it was his disorder, and Gavin still blamed himself.

They’d been assigned box destroying duty by Geoff, whose friend had just moved houses and had about ten thousand old boxes that they needed destroyed. After thanking the two of them profusely she’d given each of them a box cutter and had moved back inside to finish unpacking.

"See Michael, she trusts me with a knife," Gavin had teased; tongue poking out and eyes twinkling.

"And when we’re all dead at the end of the day and she opens the door to our bodies she’ll know she was wrong in doing that," Michael stated, grabbing the first out of the pile of boxes and slicing neatly through the tape at the bottom.

"I resent that. But I appreciate that you think I’m strong enough to overthrow you."

Michael snorted in response.

"Outmatch you," Gavin reworded, subconsciously.

"You make a good point. You’d probably have to sneak up on me," Michael had laughed. He folded the box and flattened it, adding it to the steadily growing flat pile in the corner. Gavin was still on his second box.

"I’m stealthy. Sly. Bloody hell these boxes are a mother to cut through."

"You’re probably doing it wrong. How sly?" Michael asked flatly, rolling his eyes and allowing his smile to widen.

"Sly like a fly. No one sees flies, do they? Sly fly. Fly sly."

"I’m pretty sure everyone sees flies all the time, and complains about how annoying they are. So yeah, actually, you could pass as a fly."

Halfway through his sentence Michael had heard a small hiss but he hadn’t stopped, mechanically reaching for his next box as he thumbed the blade up and went to slice the tape. When silence met his statement he assumed Gavin was sorting through his words in his head or acting out a compulsion, so he naturally kept talking to fill the silence.

"You’d probably just fly into everything, though. Be attracted to that stupid fly stick stuff and—"

"Michael," Gavin interrupted, and there was _something ****_—

Something really, really wrong. Michael stopped, blinked through the icy fear that flooded his heart, and lifted his head to look at him. Carefully, he placed his knife down, and reached with two hands towards Gavin's bleeding wrist.

 _"Fuck,"_ he'd breathed, and then shook his head and regained himself. "Okay, fuck. That's deep. Should I — fuck, I’ll take you to the hospital."

Gavin didn’t respond, body rigid and staring at the small but deep slice diagonal on his wrist. The effort he was putting into not moving was causing him to shake, to tremble with the force of restraining himself.

"There’s only one, Michael," he forced out through his teeth, his voice tight and entire body tense and straining.

Michael froze, the words echoing, twisting, spilling with the implications of what those few words meant.

"Gavin?"

"There’s only one," Gavin repeated, but as soon as he did it was as if a dam had burst and he was reaching for the box cutter with his damaged hand and dragging the open blade across his other wrist in a tauntingly red mimic of the original.

"Gavin, _no_ — _!_ "

But it was far too late and the second wound was now bleeding just as much as the first. He felt panic rise in his throat and make his heart skip a sickening beat, but when Gavin looked up at him with tears welling in his eyes and an apology on his trembling lips Michael had lunged forwards and gathered Gavin into a quick embrace. He felt Gavin clutch at him as he moved away, much earlier than normal and setting off tic after tic in the British man, but Michael was focused on pulling him to his feet and dragging him towards the door.

"I’m sorry, Michael. I’m sorry," Gavin apologised, and Michael wasn't surprised that he got caught on the words, unable to do anything but repeat them.

"I’m sorry, Michael. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Michael."

Over and over as Michael pulled him through the house and out the door, practically throwing him in the front seat as he jumped in the drivers and started the car.

"I’m sorry, Michael. I’m sorry."

And Michael had repeated his own words as he’d drove, gunning it for the hospital as safely as he could while still sneaking glances at the ashen, trembling man beside him.

"It’s okay, Gavin, it’s alright. It’s okay. I love you. I love you so fucking much, it’s okay."

He’d taken him to the E.R, and it had taken hours to explain that Gavin had severe OCD — it wasn’t a suicide attempt, it was an accident. That there had only been one cut wrist, and there had to be two.

Michael stayed with him until he was released, promising the younger man he loved him, he didn’t blame him, it was okay. He held him while he cried and got held in return, and he flicked all the switches for Gavin while he couldn’t and counted all cracks in the hospital roof with him, and he never stopped telling him he loved him, repeating the term constantly for his _own_ compulsive need to reassure him and make sure he understood.

Yeah, it had always been like this, and Michael would always love him anyway. 


End file.
